


Ashes to Ashes (It Will Always Be Me and You)

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Armand and Jean showing that the true path to true love is having the same favorite disney princess, Based off of Heirs, Cinderella Elements, Families of Choice, I did, Kyele asked for this too, M/M, No Inquisition, Red Guards - Freeform, The Cinderella AU of Heirs that nobody asked for ever, Ye Heirs of Glory - Freeform, edit: Alright, except for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean de Treville hadn't wanted to go to Paris, or to meet the heir of the most prolific family in France. What Jean had wanted, above anything else, above the stupid, childish dreams of an Alpha who loved him or to go to the Richelieu's masked ball, was to go home. Still, Jean couldn't go home. Not with his brother still there, not with his parents dead and gone. So Jean would go to Paris, and he would be alright, if not happy.</p><p>(Things did not exactly turn out that way.)</p><p>AKA: In an Inquisition-less world, a mixed-blood penniless omega like Jean Treville still wasn't the most welcome of creatures.<br/>In contrast, Armand-Jean du Richelieu was so fortunate he could have been a prince. (A Cinderella AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ye Heirs of Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718833) by [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele). 



 

Treville went to Paris barely two weeks after his first heat, fifteen and alone. His father had died two years before—and it was his _father_ not his _sirrah_ , with his mixed line of throwbacks and Betas betraying his lot in life even from the beginning. (Nobody wanted a mutt of a country noble as their Omega. And especially not an orphan.)

So Jean would go to Paris, even though Paris wouldn’t want him. Not that city of splendor and light, so unlike Gascony. So unlike home. But Paris took all types even though the pure bloods didn’t necessarily want them there, and he would fade into the crowd of Betas and throwbacks alike.

But that didn’t mean life would be easy, and getting there wouldn’t be either. Not in the middle of winter, when everything was rough and cold. But it would be better than staying at home another year, stuck with his brother; with the wandering eyes and heavy perfume. His brother, who stared at him with not-at-all concealed envy, because Jean was the younger of them but would still inherit. Or, rather, Jean’s mate would inherit.

Assuming he ever got one. Which, staring down the biting winds and snow, didn’t seem very likely these days. It hadn't been very likely from the first place, but only rarely did he allow himself the melodrama which came from envisioning that he would die without ever even meeting a compatible alpha. 

The winds howled on. His horse trudged through the snow. Life went on. So would he. Even through the cold, and even through wind, he would go on. It took more than winter to get rid of Jean de Treville. 

He would be fine. He would. He knew that much, even when he was laying next to a fire and couldn’t bring himself to feel warm. Even when the winds howled and bit, and when winter had turned everything into the horrible hues of white and silver; when he forgot what it was like to be warm. 

Paris wasn’t that far away. He could make it to Paris. He would make it to Paris, even if it was the last thing he did. But Paris was far away, and every day he moved slower and slower. His horse, bless its soul, was hardly going to keep up under these conditions. 

Ice had set into Treville’s veins, making his blood flow slower with every pulse of his heart.Snowflakes swirled above him, white and cold as anything. Paris, he thought. He had to make it to Paris. But he was tired, and it was cold. The sky was white too, colorless and unfeeling. Perhaps it wouldn’t kill him to sleep, just a little.

He was tired.

* * *

 

“Hello?” Darkness. “Hello?” Again. “Are you alright?”

Light. Ouch. “Mmfh.” His mouth tasted like something had died in it. He blinked again. A man stood above him, tall and dark haired. He was a Beta, Jean could tell from his scent. Not a threat. Still---“Who are you?” He asked, cheeks flushed, posturing. 

“Robert Jussac,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Jean blinked, taking in his surroundings. It wasn’t cold; they were in some sort of hunting lodge. A fire roared in the hearth beside him. “Better now, I suppose,” 

“I found you by the side of the road, practically frozen to the bone,” the man said.“We took you here, I hope you don’t mind.”

“We?” He mumbled, breathing. Oh—three Alphas. Still, all of them were mated, or… something like it.

“Apologies,” he said. “This is Cahusac, Bernajoux, and Boisrenard.” 

“I’m Jean de Treville,” he said, more out of habit than anything else. The Alphas in question were tall, strong young things clad in leather armor and red cloaks. Bernajoux and Boisrenard, seemed like their smiles were permanently stuck on their faces, and they only seemed to have eyes for each other. Cahusac had long dark hair and dark eyes, and had Jean been a cliched omega in a bodice-ripper romance, he would’ve fallen in love immediately. As it was, Jean was nowhere naive or idiotic enough to fall in love with the first city Alpha he saw, and Cahusac wasn’t even Jean’s type anyway. While Jean did have a slight weakness for tall, dark, curly haired Alphas whenever he allowed himself to daydream about such things, he always liked to imagine his Alpha would have an air of elegance about him: less swagger and more confidence. 

“Hello,” they waved from across the room.

Still—oh Lord, alone with three strange Alphas with only a strange Beta as company. His governess would turn in her grave. “Ah—where exactly would ‘here’ be,” he said instead. “I’m trying to get to Paris.”

“What luck, so are we,” Cahusac said, throwing another log into the fire. He stood up, wiped the ashes off of his hands. “We being red guards, of course, since Jussac forgot to mention that bit.”

“Red guards—the private military of the Richelieu family?”

“The one and the same,” the one they called Bernajoux said, smiling at him. “You’re in an old Richelieu hunting lodge, right now. Not one that they use any longer, but still in working order.”

“We have to wait out the storm,” Boisrenard supplied. “It’s too rough to continue on to Paris.” 

“Not that we’re very far, mind you,” said Cahusac. “Another day’s ride.”

That certainly was closer than he’d been before. “How long do you think the storm will go on for?”

“Another day, at least.” Jussac shrugged. “Give or take.”

The wind blew so hard that the walls shook. “More like give or take a few weeks,” Cahusac grumbled. 

What to do until then? They glanced between themselves, Jean fidgeted.

Then: “Say, Miss Treville, do you know how to play cards?” 

Oh, did Jean know how to play cards. He grinned.

* * *

 

When the storm finally broke, it had in fact been a week, and Jean had nearly cleared them out of all their gold. They were fast friends.


	2. The Ball

_ Five Years Later _

 

“Cara, I do not need a mate.” Armand de Richelieu sighed, shuffling his papers. “And I most certainly do not need a ball to find one, of all things.” If the world were a just place, perhaps he could have left it at that.

Unfortunately, Susanne de Richelieu was a force to be reckoned with. “Armand,” She said, her tone even and prim, with the air of gentleness that she always had when she wasn’t pleased. After all, raising voices was for commoners. “You were born into privilege. You were born a _Richelieu,_ and the only Alpha pup we had. When you’re born into privilege, there are certain responsibilities you must undertake.”

Such as finding a mate and having litters of pups. While the abstract thought wasn’t unpleasing, (in fact, it was very, very pleasing, the thought of an omega who loved him and smiled with wicked lips and laughed like bells,) Armand was a romantic, like his sirrah. And none of the various other Omegas—and even Beta girls from good families, when his parents started getting desperate—was anything like what he wanted in a mate. Ninon de Larroque was perhaps the closest, having all of the sharp wit, but she had none of the affection. “Cara, I could do so much for the family without having mate. I was thinking of perhaps continuing on with a clerical position in the church…”

“Not all positions in the church dictate a vow of chastity, Armand, you know this.” She looked at him, the same disapproving look that always made Armand feel as though he were seven again, and had broken his cara’s prized vase while playing with Alphonse. 

“Some do,” he protested weakly. “I’m keeping my options open.”

She sighed.“Armand, you’re not as young as you used to be—”

“I’m hardly _old_ , Cara—”

“— _I’m_ not as young as I used to be,” She said. “Nor is your father. And it might not seem like it may come anytime soon to you, Armand, but before we die I would like to see our grandpups.”

Oh Lord in heaven, not the grandpups speech again.

“So we will be having a ball, Armand. And so help me, I will invite all of the eligible maidens in France to come, if that means that you will finally choose a mate.”

* * *

 

“I’m not going.” Jean said, folding the new silk. It was certainly popular this year, that royal blue color. 

“Jean.” 

“No, Jussac. Even if I did have the time—which I don’t, by the way,”

“Bonacieux would give you the time off—”

“Even if I did, I don’t need a mate.” He said. Even if he did want a mate, he wouldn’t get one. Not amongst those uppity purebloods, who were always looking down their noses. “And I wouldn’t have anything to wear to a ball, anyway.”

“I could find you something.” 

“I’m not going.”

“Treville.” His voice softened. “Tell me you don’t want to go.”

He didn’t meet his eye. “I don’t want to go.” 

“You’re lying.” Jussac sad.

So what if he was. He didn’t have the time to go gallivanting off with strange Alphas, and dancing, and maybe pretending something would come out of it when nothing ever would. No, that would only lead to a broken heart. If Treville was ever going to find a mate, it wouldn’t be with people like them: princes and viscounts and dukes. Treville would find a mate in some apprentice somewhere, not a with a lord. He should have known thatsince the beginning.

“Jean, it won’t kill you to have fun once in your life.”

“I’m not going, Jussac.”

Jussac only sighed and left him. “You know, Jean, one of these days you’re going to learn that there’s more to life than just getting by.” 

“And one day you’re going to learn that we can’t all soldier for a living.” He said. “I’m not going, Jussac.”

* * *

 

The next day he woke up to find Madame Bonacieux had bullied her husband into not only giving Jean the day off, but also into giving him some finely embroidered blue silk. Jean could sew. He was unlike a highborn omega in most respects, but his governess had not been that neglectful. He could imagine it now, if only he permitted himself: him, in a tunic of silk, swirling across a ballroom in the arms of some handsome and charismatic Alpha. He’d wear a mask and some perfume, and no one would know who he was. For once, perhaps, he could pretend he was some highborn Omega with a dowry behind him and the world at his feet. Pretend for once, that perhaps he could be wanted. Desired. That he could walk into a room of Alphas, and have them tripping over their feet to ask him for a dance. 

Nothing would come of it. Nothing could come of it. He could deal with that. 

That night, he went out to the perfumer’s and bought a mixture of lavender and mint. He took out his Cara’s old sewing kit, and made himself an outfit fit for a fairytale, for every fantasy he had ever had but would never allow himself to think. 

And by the day of the ball, he had poured every dream he had into that one piece of fabric, every wish and hope and desire, until he felt that he was wearing less of a tunic and more of a daydream; a fluttering piece of his soul stitched together by the knowledge that it would never last for more than a night. 

It was perfect. Until he realized he didn’t have a mask. He couldn’t go to a _masked_ ball without a mask, that would be ridiculous. No, he just wouldn’t go. That was alright. He—he had better things to do anyway. He still hadn’t finished with all the accounts in the ledger, Bonacieux would almost certainly need some help with that. 

It was a stupid dream, anyway. He didn’t belong at balls and parties, amongst the upper echelons of society. He was a country lady, a gascon through and through. Even with his pretty clothes and sweet perfume, he'd still stick out like a sore thumb. He barely even knew how to dance, for gods sake. It had been a ridiculous idea from the beginning.

A knock sounded at his door. He refused to open it, for a moment, content with aggressively folding his laundry and ignoring everyone he could. 

“Jean de Treville, open up!”

“Go away, Jussac,” He called out instead. “I told you, I’m not going.”

“Jean, just open your door, for god’s sake.”

He sighed, putting down his linens with a huff. “What is it now, Jussac—”

The door swung open. Outside, of course, stood Jussac. However, there was also Cahusac, and Bernajoux, and Boisrenard, dressed like footmen of all things, and a carriage that was far better than the hansom that Jean was going to hire. “Constanace told me that she thought you were going to chicken out, so I came by to make sure that wasn’t the case.”

“Robert, what even—how did you—” 

“We’ve been reliably informed that the Richelieu heir won’t be needing his guards tonight.” Bernajoux said cheerily. 

“Nor will he be needing his carriage for the evening, either,” his other half chimed in. 

“This is the _Richelieus’_ carriage?” Jean’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “I can’t go in the Richelieus’ carriage to the Richelieus’ ball—you could lose your jobs for this!”

“Don’t worry about it! Jussac let slip to Armand that Cahusac’s baby odem needed a ride to the ball but was afraid that she’d look silly in a hansom.”  
“Cahusac doesn’t have an odem.” He said dumbly, staring wide eyed.

“Don’t be stupid, Jean—you know you’re the closest thing to an odem that any of us have.” Bernajoux rolled his eyes. “You’re pack.”

Pack. He hadn’t had anything like that since his parents died. There was his brother, of course, but he didn’t count. Nobody like _him_ could’ve ever counted. For a while, he thought that he could never have had anything like it again. Yet here were these soldier boys, three Alphas and one Beta, and saying that he was pack. He he wanted to cry, wanted to hug every one of those stupid young Alphas and Jussac twelve times over, wanted to say, _yes, of course, how could I have forgotten?_ He wanted to climb into that carriage like the princess they wanted him to pretend to be, wanted to dance with a thousand strange Alphas and meet this Armand de Richelieu who would let them just run off with a carriage because their baby odem wanted to go to a ball.But—

“I still can’t go.” He said, throat dry. “This is all wonderful, but I don’t have a mask.”

They only laughed. “We thought you might forget, that too,” Cahusac said from his seat at the front of the carriage. He rifled in a bag that sat next to him. “Come here.” 

He held out a small piece of leather covered in blue linen and speckled with glass beads that were sewed on with crooked stitches. That was probably Boisrenard’s work—out of the four of them, he was best with a needle, but that was not saying much. 

“It’s not, much, but it’s the best we could do—”

“It’s perfect,” Jean cut him off, picking the mask out of Cahusac’s hands with reverence. He meant it, too. No one else had ever made something for him—not without him paying for it. Only his mother had done anything like that for him, and even then it was mostly taking in some of her old things to make into makeshift omega clothing. This one piece of leather was probably worth more to him in that moment than all of the gold in France. “I—I don’t know what to say.” Tears welled up in his eyes, a lump grew in his throat. “This is—” too much, he almost said.

“Exactly what you deserve.” Jussac said, placing a hand on Jean’s shoulder. He almost said more, but the bell tower cut him off. 

“It’s seven, Jean. If you want to leave before they unmask at midnight—”

“—We should go,” He said. And, fixing the mask over his eyes, he took Jussac’s hand and stepped into the carriage like a debutante omega from another age and another life.

 

* * *

 

The ball was unlike his wildest dreams. Even when he thought luxury, he didn’t think of a hall made of mirrors; even when Jean fantasized, he didn’t imagine potential sires lining up for a dance with him. 

Funny how things changed with a mask and some perfume. In just a few hours he turned from a penniless omega without a dowry, to the mysterious belle of the ball. 

He spun across the floor from alpha to alpha, as he had no chaperone to complain. Not that any maiden aunt he could have had would have called any of these sires unworthy. Not these Alphas, these were cream-of-the-crop purebloods if he had ever seen any. He could tell even with the perfumes, even with the masks. They held themselves with a sort of self-assured confidence—cockiness—that only a pureblood would ever have. These were the sort of Alphas that would never give him the time of day if he weren’t trussed up like a high-society Omega.

That was alright. That didn’t matter, not if he could pretend that he was one of them, just for tonight. It didn’t matter if he could pretend, for one night, that he lived in a fantasy world where his bloodline meant nothing, and that perhaps one of them might care for him. 

But that was a dangerous line of thought. Tomorrow the glamourwould be over, tomorrow he’d go home alone, tomorrow he would still only have what he started with. 

Perhaps it would have been better to stay home after all. He was tricking himselfinto believing in a daydream; they would never care for him. He was nothing more than a puzzle to them, a pretty thing to exist for a night and then disappear. He had thought he’d be alright with that, if he had the memories. 

But now...A taste of what it might have been like to be different.To be admired. Desired. Instead of ignored.What an idiot he was: He could never be content with just the once, even though that was all he was ever going to get. He broke away from his dance partner, as politely as he could while still being quick. He needed fresh air, he needed to clear his head, he needed to go home. 

He was ready to break out into a run the moment he got to the garden, the moment he was away from prying eyes. He was not expecting to go tumbling into someone the moment he did. He was most definitely not expecting that someone to be a very attractive alpha. Collapsed on the ground, they were so close he could almost pretend that he could pick his real scent out from beneath the cologne, cedar and allspice. 

Then the moment was gone, and all he could smell was his cologne. “Are you alright?” The strange alpha asked, helping him up.

“I’ve had worse,” he said. His tunic, unfortunately, hadn’t, and he noted with distress thatone of the sides had ripped, and not cleanly across the seam either. It wasn’t blatantly obvious; if he so chose, he could still go back into the ballroom with few people noticing—or at least, having the manners to not say a word about it. Still, it would never be the same, even when he mended it. 

The Alpha laughed. “I suppose you would have,” he said, and leaning in closer, straightened Jean’s mask. “Strange mask, this. Who are you supposed to be?”

Right: masquerades were often fancy dress. He had almost forgotten. He fidgeted for a moment. “I am—” He murmured, fingers catching on the tear in his tunic. “A shipwrecked princess,” he said, smiling bitterly. Yes, he could be that, lost with little chance of returning home. Stuck in a strange land.

The Alpha smiled. “Curious,” he said. He himself was dressed in hunting leathers, wearing a mask of dark red embroidered with black. 

“Who might you be?” 

“Me?” He grinned, almost predatory. “I’m the huntsman.” 

“Oh? Have you come to take my heart?” Jean said before he could stop himself, before he could remind himself that this was a pureblood Alpha, that Jean should stay away. 

He laughed; his smile was sweeter now, gentler. “I daresay you’re the first one who has gotten the reference.”

“Surely not,” Jean said, raising an eyebrow. That would be ridiculous. He had been practically raised off of fairytales and myths. “Everyone knows Snow White.” 

“If they do, they pretend not to know it.” 

“I didn’t know fairytales were for commoners now,” Jean deadpanned.

His huntsman laughed. “You would think, wouldn’t you?” He said. “Yet for some reason no one seems to understand.”

“Maybe they wanted you to explain it.” It wouldn’t be that unusual; the huntsman obviously wasn’t the King, but if he was high enough up in bloodline, then he might have Beta women fawning over him, or poorer omegas—the sort that would be helped by making themselves appear less knowledgable, as if it would be some sort of power trip for potential sires. Pureblooded omegas generally didn’t bother with that; pureblooded omegas were not only expected to be intelligent but were, and had enough potential sires lining up to never bother trying to change how they were. Jean wouldn’t dare

“Maybe they did,” the huntsman murmured, and for a moment, staring straight into Jean’s eyes, it felt a little bit like a fairytale. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a person like you in my life.” 

“I doubt you have.” He meant it in that he doubted he had ever met a penniless orphan omega before, but it didn’t come out in that way. Instead, he sounded cocky, confident, a little bit mysterious. 

“No, I really haven’t.” He said, and the way he stared at Jean was unsettling, in a way, but Jean’s traitorous heart still skipped a beat, still made him simultaneously want to glance a way and stare at him forever. “I—you must tell me what to call you.”

“It’s not midnight yet,” he said, barely holding himself back from speaking too quickly, from reminding himself that he would never let the Huntsman see him at midnight. He would let himself have this, at least; let himself have the memory of someone wanting him without the knowledge that if the Huntsman knew who he was, he’d revile him. 

“No, but you don’t have to tell me your family name,”he insisted. “Just a name. It doesn’t even have to be yours.” 

He could give him a million names. Names that weren’t his and never would be. _Medea_ , he almost called himself, or _Persephone,_ or _Snow White._ He was very close to naming himself Snow White, before he changed his mind. “Jean,” he said instead. “Call me Jean.” It didn’t mean anything anyway. Once morning came, he would be forgotten. “Yourself?”

“I’m Armand,” the Huntsman—Armand—said, after a moment’s thought. “Just Armand.”

Inside, the violins started up a waltz, the high strains falling into gentle chords as the cellos joined in. Above them, the moon was so bright it might as well have been daytime, and the stars glittered in a dance of their own. Perhaps—Perhaps—

“Well then, Miss Jean, may I have this dance?” 

—Jean could have his very own fairytale. Just the once. Just for the night. He took his hand. When they danced, starlight clung to their skin, and Jean felt like he had simply stopped being tethered to the earth, and floated amongst the stars. 

It felt like it could last an age, like they had been dancing in that garden from the beginning of time and would stay like that until the end of it, and yet it somehow also only felt like it had lasted a second, or maybe a fraction of that. They danced, and they talked, and they spoke of seemingly everything and also nothing; baring their souls to each other without even knowing their full names. 

Still, all good things must come to an end, and it felt like no time at all had gone by before the bells began tolling. He froze, counting the chimes. Surely it was only ten, or perhaps eleven, but surely not— “I must go.”

“What?” Armand frowned. “Don’t be silly, it’s only midnight. You haven’t even told me the rest of your name.”

“I need to go. It was lovely—It really was.” Oh, how he meant that. There would never again be a night like this one. “I’m sorry!” He wrenched himself away from him, running toward his Red Guards were waiting with the carriage. 

“Jean—wait—!”

He paused for a moment, smiled. A huntsman chasing after a princess. Just like a fairytale. “You know, Armand, I might have let you.” In another life.

“What?”

“Take my heart.” He said, but then he was running again, and an Alpha could never hope to be as fleet of foot as an omega, though he wasn’t a pureblood. Armand would thank him for this, probably. If he ever found out who he was. (He never would.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Kyele, who is just the best writing friend a girl could ask for, and is endless with her encouragement and help! 
> 
> Also, 10 points to whoever can spot the references I made to some Cinderella films :)


	3. Chapter 3

The air was heavy with rain that refused to pour itself out on the street already. Instead, it just sat there. In the air. Not doing a single thing, just waiting, for absolutely no reason. Armand hated waiting. He hated the rain, too. But especially gray days where the rain simply refused to rain. Why couldn’t it just come down, already, like it was supposed to? It just had to loom there, threatening, and make everyone so frustrated, because anything would be better than just waiting for something to happen.

“Armand, you can’t wait on some nameless omega for the rest of your life.” 

“He’s not nameless.” 

“He may as well be,” Nicol sighed. “Who even knows if _Jean_ is his real name anyway?”

Armand didn’t know, but that was the only name he had given him. The only name he had. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll find him.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Aleph, you can’t figure everything out from scent alone, no matter what you may think. You don’t know what he looks like. You don’t know his real name. You don’t know anything about him other than his scent and that he knows of Snow White.”

“That’s not true,” he protested. He knew quite a few things about him. He knew that he had a brother who he didn’t like speaking about, He knew that he had read Rosseau but he liked Hobbes more, he knew that he liked to believe in happy endings but wasn’t naive enough to imagine that they’d actually come true. He knew that he was from Gascony—his dialect was Parisian, but the accent occasionally slipped out—and most of all, Armand knew that he might never be a great man, but he’d always be a good one. 

“Ah, apologies, nothing that will actually help you find him.” She said. 

Admittedly, that was true. Alphas and Omegas were nearly dime-a-dozen in Gascony, and plenty of lines were diluted enough for him to have a brother. “I’ll find him, Nicol.”

She sighed again. “Armand, have you considered that maybe he doesn’t want to be found?” 

He had. Then he refused to think more about it.

“He left before we unmasked for a reason.” She said, softer. “I think you ought to consider what that reason may be.”

Armand wouldn’t care if he had scars across his face, or if he had warts or pockmarked skin. Armand wouldn’t care if he thought he himself ugly—Armand had seen enough of his face to know that he wasn’t. Armand wouldn’t care about any reason that made him think he had to hide himself, and yet—he still did. So he was stuck waiting for him to appear, and knowing that he probably wouldn’t. Not if Armand didn’t go out looking for him. 

Action was always better than inaction, his sirrah had once said. 

Nicol huffed, standing up. “Alright then, aleph, don’t listen to me. I should leave anyway, I promised René D’Herblay that we’d draw together today.” 

Then with a ruffle of petticoats and swish of long dark hair, she had disappeared, and Armand was left alone. He didn’t even attempt scolding her of seeing the D’Herblay omega so soon after the scandal of his mating; Nicol wouldn’t listen anyway. So he stared at the damned gray sky and waited for the rain.

* * *

“Jean, you’re going to have to tell us what happened at the ball one of these days.” Bernajoux leaned against the desk, propping his head up with a lazy hand.

“As your adopted alephs, we have a right to know whether or not potential sires are going to come knocking down your door, Jean.” Boisrenard agreed, similarly leaning on top of Bernajoux. 

Jean sighed, notating another sum down in the ledger. “You two can’t keep bothering me at work,” he said, glaring. 

“Constance doesn’t mind!” Bernajoux scoffed. “She loves us.” 

“Loves that you drive her husband insane, more like.” He rolled his eyes. “And loves that you drive me insane.”

“Pah, you know you love us, Jean.” Boisrenard said, and nudged him playfully on the arm.  
Unfortunately that nudge made him drag a line of ink straight across the ledger. He groaned and grabbed a handkerchief to try and blot it off, but unfortunately the damage was already done. “Don’t you two have jobs of your own?” 

They shrugged in unison. “Eh,” Bernajoux said noncommittally. 

“Jussac let us have a half day,” Boisrenard explained. “Cahusac’s gone to visit Jeanne, and Jussac,”

“Jussac’s stuck listening to the boss mope. Again.” 

Boisrenard sighed overdramatically, “About how he met the _love_ of his _life_ at the ball, but tragically the Omega raced off at the very stroke of midnight.”

Jean froze. “How unfortunate,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice even. Of course: Armand _._ Armand, _de Richelieu._ The Alpha heir to the Richelieu line. The very man who paid his pack’s wages, the very man who loaned him his carriage. 

Well, he’d gotten one thing right: he had done him a favor by running that night. No Richelieu Alpha would ever be disgraced by courting an omega like him, let alone mating with him. He’d be better with Jean gone, able to cherish the memory of the mystery Omega who might have loved him, just as Jean would cherish his memory. They would never have anything more. They were never even supposed to meet. Armand— _the Richelieu Alpha,_ would realize this eventually, once he got over mourning the lost possibilities. What they had would live on, maybe, but only as some sort of fairytale for him to tell his beautiful, pureblooded pups one day. The story about the Omega who he loved, and disappeared. And Jean? Well, Jean would tell that story to himself, too, like a fairytale he would never manage to outgrow.

“Still Jean, you’ve got to tell us about it eventually.” Bernajoux said. “Who else is going to threaten all those Alphas into treating you right?”

He laughed, the same weary-yet-fond _those boys, honestly_ laugh that had been reserved for those two since he met them. “I don’t need anyone threatening any Alphas, Bernajoux. Now get out, I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes and I want to get these ledgers done before then.” 

“Kicking us to the curb again,” Bernajoux sighed overdramatically. “I see how it is.”

Boisrenard laughed, pulling Bernajoux out the door. “See you later, Jean.”

“Yeah,” He mumbled. “See you later.”

He wouldn’t go see Armand. Any feelings he had for him could go into the same box where he put his mask and his tunic; forgotten until a convenient time where he could pull them out and reminisce. 

Unfortunately, emotions were a lot harder to box up than mementos. 

* * *

“I let him slip straight through my fingers, Jussac,” He groaned.

“I know, Armand.”

“He was like no one else I’d ever met,” He sighed. “Smart, and funny, and…everything.”

“Everything?”

“Not perfect, but his imperfections just make him better, in a way.” He hummed, staring at the ceiling. “I feel like I learned more about him in a few hours than I learned about other people in years.”

“Armand…”

“I know, I know, I don’t even know his real name. Or his clan’s name. Or who the head of his pack is.” 

“His _real_ name?”

“He called himself Jean.” 

He perked up. “Jean, you say?”

“Yes, why?” He turned, staring at Jussac with wide eyes. “Do you know something about him?”

“Just wondering at your capacity to fall maddeningly in love with an Omega with the most common name there is.” He said acerbically. 

“I’m not maddeningly in love,” he protested. “You can’t fall in love with a person in one day. It’s just—he was nice. And I let him slip away.” 

“Mhm,” Jussac murmured, in lieu of _if anyone could fall in love in a day, Armand, it’d be you._

* * *

“Jean Treville!” Somebody was banging on his door.

He dragged himself out of his chair. Sometimes these boys were more work than they were worth, it seemed. “What is it, Jussac?”

It was not Jussac that answered. “Jean de Treville, you old dog—”

“Can’t believe you, we had to go through Armand’s moping for ages—”

“It was you all along?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Why didn’t you tell _him_?”

He blinked. They were still there. All four of them. Damn. “One at a time, please.” He grumbled.

“The omega Armand’s been looking for’s name was Jean and wore a handmade blue mask,” Jussac said dryly. “Want to explain that?”

Ah, fuck. He ran a hand down his face. “Yes, I met him. Yes, I danced with him. Yes, he was lovely,” 

“Why do I feel like he’s about to contradict everything he just said?” Jussac deadpanned.

Jean glared. “— _But_ , you have to realize that he’s a _Richelieu_. And Richelieus don’t,” want anything to do with Omegas like him. Regularly scoff at Omegas like him, actually. Stare down their noses patronizingly and only associate with him long enough to buy their fabric and go. “Mate with Omegas like me.” 

“Jean, don’t you think he has a right to decide that for himself?”

Of course he did, theoretically. However, theoretically Jean wouldn’t have to be there in front of him and watch his pretty words and romantic promises slide away when he found out that his fantasy Omega was less than ideal. Theoretically, Jean wouldn’t have to deal with the humiliation of stepping in front of the heir to the most prominent family in France, and watch him barely conceal his distaste as he quietly turned him down. Theoretically, Jean wouldn’t have to watch the Alpha out of a dream regard him with displeasure. “It doesn’t matter, because he’s never going to see me again anyway.”

“Jean, you’ve got to know how much this is breaking his heart,” Bernajoux insisted. 

Like it wasn’t breaking his? He didn’t meet their eyes. “It’s better this way. That’s final.”

* * *

 

“There’s no way we’re just going to let him walk away, right?”

“Of course not!” Bernajoux agreed. “We need to make a plan.”

“Something with a catchy name,” Boisrenard added. “Like Operation Snow White, or Operation Royal Huntsman, or something.”

“Oh! I’ve got it, Operation Trevilieu!”

Jussac stared at them blankly. “That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard.” He said. “If you’re going to give them a name, it has to be something better than that. Something like—” what was it Armand had said? _I let him slip straight through my fingers._ “Operation Slipper.”

_“_ Oh _,_ That’s good,” Cahusac grinned.

“I don’t get it.”

“That’s because you two haven’t had to listen toArmand cry out how he had let him ‘slipstraight through his fingers’ for the past two weeks straight.” Jussac knew exactly what they had been getting up to instead. He always knew.

“Ah, got it now.” They coughed nervously. “So, Operation Slipper it is!”

“Now we just need, you know, an actual plan.”

* * *

 

“Say, Armand,” Boisrenard said casually. “We know that you’ve been, you know, on a quest for your true love and all—”

“He’s not my true love, Boisrenard,” Armand grumbled.

“—But have you considered, maybe, going out instead?”

“I’m not going drinking with you, Boisrenard.”

“It doesn’t have to be drinking!” Cahusac interjected. “Just a walk around the city.”

“You’ve been working too hard,” Jussac said bluntly. “We’re getting worried.”

He sighed, stared down at the papers on his desk. No, he wasn’t getting anywhere. “Fine. But no more than an hour.”

* * *

“I’m certain that your mate would look lovely in the blue, Lady D’Herblay.”

“It’s a gift, you see, for her birthday. Normally I’d have our tailor do it, but Charlotte can be a bit picky about these things sometimes.” She smiled. “She loves to stitch things herself.”

A lady who fancied herself a seamstress, how quaint.Still, if Jean himself were a pureblood’s mate instead of a country lady who had no wealth to speak of, perhaps he would be the same. Embroidering for the sake of it, instead of for a once-in-a-lifetime ball. If Jean were a duchess, for example, he might embroider a a cloak with a pattern of snowflakes or flowers, or stitch love notes into scraps of silk for his mate to wear on his arm. Something red, perhaps; Alphaic colors, Richelieu colors—

Oh, that was a bad train of thought. “Thank you again,” Adele D’Herblay smiled as she stepped outside of the store, her mate’s birthday gift of blue silk in hand. He stretched, noting down the Countess’s purchase in the ledger before he flipped the close sign by the door. This was the last time he was working storefront, he hoped. He hated doing it. Tending to the ledger from the back room was so much better, as was attending business transactions that needed an Omega to lend it legitimacy. The storefront, however, was just a hassle.

The bell at the door chimed. He sighed, and didn’t bother to turn around. “We’re closed.” he said. “Come back tomorrow.” 

Instead of the bell ringing again to signal the person’s departure, Jean was met by a few strangely choked noises.

“Are you alright?” He turned, and— _oh_.

“Jean,” Armand de Richelieu said from his doorway, breathless and handsome. 

Oh, no. “Armand,” he said, and if his voice sounded breathy, well, he wasn’t expected. His traitorous heart skipped a beat; perhaps if he kept him out of scenting distance everything would be fine. He stepped back.

Armand just stepped forward.“I—You—” he said, and now he was close enough for _Jean_ to scent him, even with pureblood’s notoriously mild scents. He was just as Jean suspected, originally: cedar and allspice, and pureblood and Richelieu.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he swallowed, reminding himself of all the reasons why it couldn’t happen.

“Yes I should.”

He laughed, because of course, of course this ridiculous Alpha would say that. “Why’s that.” 

“Because you’re here.”

And, oh. That was a little suggestive, almost, a little too close to vows: _where you goeth, I will go._ “Armand,” he swallowed, and his heart was faster than a hummingbird, beating so quick he thought it might just pound its way out of his chest. “I—I’m not,” he stuttered “I’m not. I—you wouldn’t want me.”

“I’m fairly certain _I_ know what I want,” he replied acerbically, raising an eyebrow. “And, right now, I would very much like to know your surname.”

“Treville. I—I’m Jean de Treville.” He swallowed. “The Comtesse,” he said, as if it made that much of a difference. 

“Jean de Treville,” he hummed, trying out the name on his tongue. Then, “Do you have any blood family of whom I’m unaware?” he begins. 

And, oh. Certainly not. There was no way he could be formally asking his his suit. He opens his mouth, maybe to berate him, maybe to ask him what ongod’s earth he was doing, but. His romantic side won out, and “No,” came out instead. He almost felt light headed.

“Adopted pack? Clan?”

“I—yes. I do.” He said. “Cahusac of Mont-de-Marsan is the head of my pack.” 

“Cahusac?” He said, taken by surprise, a chink in the armor of perfect fairytale Alpha from Jean’s dreams, but—Jean didn’t mind. It was Armand, and that was all that mattered. “I’ll see him immediately.” 

Jean was fairly certain that Cahusac was just waiting outside the door with the rest of his pack of busybodies, but something in him liked the timelessness of it, liked the thought of a potential sire stepping into the other room to ask the head of his pack for permission to court him. It’d be just like something out of an old, bodice ripper romance, or maybe…something out of a fairytale.

It began to rain.


End file.
